The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Other things get single men a long way from home upset—and one we did start. These Peace Dragoons had been sent to The Rock without a comfort detachment.

  Some of our fems were extremely beautiful and some started loitering around stations, dressed in less than usual—which could approach zero—and wearing more than usual amount of perfume, scents with range and striking power. They did not speak to yellow jackets nor look at them; they simply crossed their line of sight, undulating as only a Loonie gal can. (A female on Terra can’t walk that way; she’s tied down by six times too much weight.)

  Such of course produces a male gallery, from men down to lads not yet pubescent—happy whistles and cheers for her beauty, nasty laughs at yellow boy. First girls to take this duty were slot-machine types but volunteers sprang up so fast that Prof decided we need not spend money. He was correct: even Ludmilla, shy as a kitten, wanted to try it and did not only because Mum told her not to. But Lenore, ten years older and prettiest of our family, did try it and Mum did not scold. She came back pink and excited and pleased with herself and anxious to tease enemy again. Her own idea; Lenore did not then know that revolution was brewing.

  During this time I rarely saw Prof and never in public; we kept touch by phone. At first a bottleneck was that our farm had just one phone for twenty-five people, many of them youngsters who would tie up a phone for hours unless coerced. Mimi was strict; our kids were allowed one out-going call per day and max of ninety seconds on a call, with rising scale of punishment—tempered by her warmth in granting exceptions. But grants were accompanied by “Mum’s Phone Lecture”: “When I first came to Luna there were no private phones. You children don’t know how soft …”

  We were one of last prosperous families to install a phone; it was new in household when I was opted. We were prosperous because we never bought anything farm could produce. Mum disliked phone because rates to Luna City Co-op Comm Company were passed on in large measure to Authority. She never could understand why I could not (“Since you know all about such things, Manuel dear”) steal phone service as easily as we liberated power. That a phone instrument was part of a switching system into which it must fit was no interest to her.

  Steal it I did, eventually. Problem with illicit phone is how to receive incoming calls. Since phone is not listed, even if you tell persons from whom you want calls, switching system itself does not have you listed; is no signal that can tell it to connect other party with you.

  Once Mike joined conspiracy, switching was no problem. I had in workshop most of what I needed; bought some items and liberated others. Drilled a tiny hole from workshop to phone cupboard and another to Wyoh’s room—virgin rock a meter thick but a laser drill collimated to a thin pencil cuts rapidly. I unshipped listed phone, made a wireless coupling to line in its recess and concealed it. All else needed were binaural receptors and a speaker in Wyoh’s room, concealed, and same in mine, and a circuit to raise frequency above audio to have silence on Davis phone line, and its converse to restore audio incoming.

  Only problem was to do this without being seen, and Mum generaled that.

  All else was Mike’s problem. Used no switching arrangements; from then on used MYCROFTXXX only when calling from some other phone. Mike listened at all times in workshop and in Wyoh’s room; if he heard my voice or hers say “Mike,” he answered, but not to other voices. Voice patterns were as distinctive to him as fingerprints; he never made mistakes.

  Minor flourishes—soundprooflng Wyoh’s door such as workshop door already had, switching to suppress my instrument or hers, signals to tell me she was alone in her room and door locked, and vice versa. All added up to safe means whereby Wyob and I could talk with Mike or with each other, or could set up talk-talk of Mike, Wyoh, Prof, and self. Mike would call Prof wherever he was; Prof would talk or call back from a more private phone. Or might be Wyoh or myself had to be found. We all were careful to stay checked in with Mike.

  My bootleg phone, though it had no way to punch a call, could be used to call any number in Luna—speak to Mike, ask for a Sherlock to anybody—not tell him number, Mike had all listings and could look up a number faster than I could.

  We were beginning to see unlimited possibilities in a phoneswitching system alive and on our side. I got from Mike and gave Mum still another null number to call Mike if she needed to reach me. She grew chummy with Mike while continuing to think he was a man. This spread through our family. One day as I returned home Sidris said, “Mannie darling, your friend with the nice voice called. Mike Holmes. Wants you to call back.”

  “Thanks, hon. Will.”

  “When are you going to invite him to dinner, Man? I think he’s nice.”

  I told her Gospodin Holmes had bad breath, was covered with rank hair, and hated women.

  She used a rude word, Mum not being in earshot. “You’re afraid to let me see him. Afraid I’ll opt out for him.” I patted her and told her that was why. I told Mike and Prof about it. Mike flirted even more with my womenfolk after that; Prof was thoughtful.

  I began to learn techniques of conspiracy and to appreciate Prof’s feeling that revolution could be an art. Did not forget (nor ever doubt) Mike’s prediction that Luna was only seven years from disaster. But did not think about it, thought about fascinating, finicky details.

  Prof had emphasized that stickiest problems in conspiracy are communications and security, and had pointed out that they conflict—easier are communications, greater is risk to security; if security is tight, organization can be paralyzed by safety precautions. He had explained that cell system was a compromise.

  I accepted cell system since was necessary to limit losses from spies. Even Wyoh admitted that organization without compartmentation could not work after she learned how rotten with spies old underground had been.

  But I did not like clogged communications of cell system; like Terran dinosaurs of old, took too long to send message from head to tail, or back.

  So talked with Mike.

  We discarded many-linked channels I had suggested to Prof. We retained cells but based security and communication on marvelous possibilities of our dinkum thinkum.

  Communications:We set up a ternary tree of “party” names:

  Chairman, Gospodin Adam Selene (Mike)

  Executive cell: Bork (me), Betty (Wyoh), Bill (Prof)

  Bork’s cell: Cassie (Mum), Colin, Chang

  Betty’s cell: Calvin (Greg), Cecilia (Sidris), Clayton

  Bill’s cell: Cornwall (Finn Nielsen), Carolyn, Cotter

  —and so on. At seventh link George supervises Herbert, Henry, and Hallie. By time you reach that level you need 2,187 names with “H”—but turn it over to savvy computer who finds or invents them. Each recruit is given a party name and an emergency phone number. This number, instead of chasing through many links, connects with “Adam Selene,” Mike.

  Security: Based on double principle; no human being can be trusted with anything—but Mike could be trusted with everything.

  Grim first half is beyond dispute. With drugs and other unsavory methods any man can be broken. Only defense is suicide, which may be impossible. Oh, are “hollow tooth” methods, classic and novel, some nearly infallible—Prof saw to it that Wyoh and myself were equipped. Never knew what he gave her as a final friend and since I never had to use mine, is no point in messy details. Nor am I sure I would ever suicide; am not stuff of martyrs.

  But Mike could never need to suicide, could not be drugged, did not feel pain. He carried everything concerning us in a separate memory bank under a locked signal programmed only to our three voices, and, since flesh is weak, we added a signal under which any of us could lock out other two in emergency. In my opinion as best computerman in Luna, Mike could not remove this lock once it was set up. Best of all, nobody would ask master computer for this file because nobody knew it existed, did not suspect Mike-as-Mike existed. How secure can you be?

  Only risk was that this awakened machine was whimsical. Mike was alw
ays showing unforeseen potentials; conceivable he could figure way to get around block—if he wanted to.

  But would never want to. He was loyal to me, first and oldest friend; he liked Prof; I think he loved Wyoh. No, no, sex meant nothing. But Wyoh is lovable and they hit it off from start.

  I trusted Mike. In this life you have to bet; on that bet I would give any odds.

  So we based security on trusting Mike with everything while each of us knew only what he had to know. Take that tree of names and numbers. I knew only party names of my cellmates and of three directly under me; was all I needed. Mike set up party names, assigned phone number to each, kept roster of real names versus party names. Let’s say party member “Daniel” (whom I would not know, being a “D” two levels below me) recruits Fritz Schultz. Daniel reports fact but not name upwards; Adam Selene calls Daniel, assigns for Schultz party name “Embrook,” then phones Schultz at number received from Daniel, gives Schultz his name Embrook and emergency phone number, this number being different for each recruit.

  Not even Embrook’s cell leader would know Embrook’s emergency number. What you do not know you cannot spill, not under drugs nor torture, nor anything. Not even from carelessness.

  Now let’s suppose I need to reach Comrade Embrook. I don’t know who he is; he may live in Hong Kong or be shopkeeper nearest my home. Instead of passing message down, hoping it will reach him, I call Mike. Mike connects me with Embrook at once, in a Sherlock, withoul giving me his number.

  Or suppose I need to speak to comrade who is preparing cartoon we are about to distribute in every taproom in Luna. I don’t know who he is. But I need to talk to him; something has come up.

  I call Mike; Mike knows everything—and again I am quickly connected—and this comrade knows it’s okay as Adam Selene arranged call. “Comrade Bork speaking”—and he doesn’t know me but initial “B” tells him that I am vip indeed—“we have to change so-and-so. Tell your cell leader and have him check, but get on with it.”

  Minor flourishes—some comrades did not have phones; some could be reached only at certain hours; some outlying warrens did not have phone service. No matter, Mike knew everything—and rest of us did not know anything that could endanger any but that handful whom each knew face to face.

  After we decided that Mike should talk voice-to-voice to any comrade under some circumstances, it was necessary to give him more voices and dress him up, make him three dimensions, create “Adam Selene, Chairman of the Provisional Committee of Free Luna.”

  Mike’s need for more voices lay in fact that he had just one voder-vocoder, whereas his brain could handle a dozen conversations, or a hundred (don’t know how many)—like a chess master playing fifty opponents, only more so.

  This would cause a bottleneck as organization grew and Adam Selene was phoned oftener, and could be crucial if we lasted long enough to go into action.

  Besides giving him more voices I wanted to silence one he had. One of those so-called computermen might walk into machines room while we were phoning Mike; bound to cause even his dim wit to wonder if he found master machine apparently talking to itself.

  Voder-vocoder is very old device. Human voice is buzzes and hisses mixed various ways; true even of a coloratura soprano. A vocoder analyzes buzzes and hisses into patterns, one a computer (or trained eye) can read. A voder is a little box which can buzz and hiss and has controls to vary these elements to match those patterns. A human can “play” a voder, producing artificial speech; a properly programmed computer can do it as fast, as easily, as clearly as you can speak.

  But voices on a phone wire are not sound waves but electrical signals; Mike did not need audio part of voder-vocoder to talk by phone. Sound waves were needed only by human at other end; no need for speech sounds inside Mike’s room at Authority Complex. so I planned to remove them, and thereby any danger that somebody might notice.

  First I worked at home, using number-three arm most of time. Result was very small box which sandwiched twenty voder-vocoder circuits minus audio side. Then I called Mike and told him to “get ill” in way that would annoy Warden. Then I waited.

  We had done this “get ill” trick before. I went back to work once we learned that I was clear, which was Thursday that same week when Alvarez read into Zebra file an account of shambles at Stilyagi Hall. His version listed about one hundred people (out of perhaps three hundred); list included Shorty Mkrum, Wyoh, Prof, and Finn Nielsen but not me—apparently I was missed by his finks. It told how nine police officers, each deputized by Warden to preserve peace, had been shot down in cold blood. Also named three of our dead.

  An add-on a week later stated that “the notorious agente provocateuse Wyoming Knott of Hong Kong in Luna, whose incendiary speech on Monday 13 May had incited the riot that cost the lives of nine brave officers, had not been apprehended in Luna City and had not returned to her usual haunts in Hong Kong in Luna, and was now believed to have died in the massacre she herself set off.” This add-on admitted what earlier report failed to mention, i.e., bodies were missing and exact number of dead was not known.

  This P.S. settled two things: Wyoh could not go home nor back to being a blonde.

  Since I had not been spotted I resumed my public ways, took care of customers that week, bookkeeping machines and retrieval files at Carnegie Library, and spent time having Mike read out Zebra file and other special files, doing so in Room L of Raffles as I did not yet have my own phone. During that week Mike niggled at me like an impatient child (which he was), wanting to know when I was coming over to pick up more jokes. Failing that, he wanted to tell them by phone.

  I got annoyed and had to remind myself that from Mike’s viewpoint analyzing jokes was just as important as freeing Luna—and you don’t break promises to a child.

  Besides that. I got itchy wondering whether I could go inside Complex without being nabbed. We knew Prof was not clear, was sleeping in Raffles on that account. Yet they knew he had been at meeting and knew where he was, daily—but no attempt was made to pick him up. When we learned that attempt had been made to pick up Wyoh, I grew itchier. Was I clear? Or were they waiting to nab me quietly? Had to know.

  So I called Mike and told him to have a tummyache. He did so, I was called in—no trouble. Aside from showing passport at station, then to a new guard at Complex, all was usual. I chatted with Mike, picked up one thousand jokes (with understanding that we would report a hundred at a time every three or four days, no faster), told him to get well, and went back to L-City, stopping on way out to bill Chief Engineer for working time, travel-and-tool time, materials, special service, anything I could load in.

  Thereafter saw Mike about once a month. Was safe, never went there except when they called me for malfunction beyond ability of their staff—and I was always able to “repair” it, sometimes quickly, sometimes after a full day and many tests. Was careful to leave tool marks on cover plates, and had before-and-after print-outs of test runs to show what had been wrong, how I analyzed it, what I had done. Mike always worked perfectly after one of my visits; I was indispensable.

  So, after I prepared his new voder-vocoder add-on, didn’t hesitate to tell him to get “ill.” Call came in thirty minutes. Mike had thought up a dandy; his “illness” was wild oscillations in conditioning Warden’s residence. He was running its heat up, then down, on an eleven-minute cycle, while oscillating its air pressure on a short cycle, ca. 2c/s, enough to make a man dreadfully nervy and perhaps cause earache.

  Conditioning a single residence should not go through a master computer! In Davis Tunnels we handled home and farm with idiot controls, feedbacks for each cubic with alarms so that somebody could climb out of bed and control by hand until trouble could be found. If cows got chilly, did not hurt corn; if lights failed over wheat, vegetables were okay. That Mike could raise hell with Warden’s residence and nobody could figure out what to do shows silliness of piling everything into one computer.

  Mike was happy-joyed. This was humor h
e really scanned. I enjoyed it, too, told him to go ahead, have fun—spread out tools, got out little black box.

  And computerman-of-the-watch comes banging and ringing at door. I took my time answering and carried number-five arm in right hand with short wing bare; this makes some people sick and upsets almost everybody. “What in hell do you want, choom?” I inquired.

  “Listen,” he says, “Warden is raising hell! Haven’t you found trouble?”

  “My compliments to Warden and tell him I will override by hand to restore his precious comfort as soon as I locate faulty circuit—if not slowed up by silly questions. Are you going to stand with door open blowing dust into machines while I have cover plates off? If you do—since you’re in charge—when dust puts machine on sputter, you can repair it. I won’t leave a warm bed to help. You can tell that to your bloody Warden, too.”

  “Watch your language, cobber.”

  “Watch yours, convict. Are you going to close that door? Or shall I walk out and go back to L-City?” And raised number-five like a club.

  He closed door. Had no interest in insulting poor sod. Was one small bit of policy to make everybody as unhappy as possible. He was finding working for Warden difficult; I wanted to make it unbearable.

  “Shall I step it up?” Mike inquired.

  “Um, hold it so for ten minutes, then stop abruptly. Then jog it for an hour, say with air pressure. Erratic but hard. Know what a sonic boom is?”

  “Certainly. It is a—”

  “Don’t define. After you drop major effect, rattle his air ducts every few minutes with nearest to a boom system will produce. Then give him something to remember. Mmm … Mike, can you make his W.C. run backwards?”

  “I surely can! All of them?”

  “How many does he have?”

  “Six.”

  “Well … program to give them all a push, enough to soak his rugs. But if you can spot one nearest his bedroom, fountain it clear to ceiling. Can?”

  “Program set up!”

  “Good. Now for your present, ducky.” There was room in voder audio box to hide it and I spent forty minutes with number-three, getting it just so. We trial-checked through voder-vocoder, then I told him to call Wyoh and check each circuit.